Tag Archives: war artist

Who do you write like?

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On 29 December I was reading fellow-blogger Ann Koplow‘s post and was introduced to the website I Write Like.

Well I wasted (?) enjoyed (?) an hour of baffling fun. I took groups of paragraphs from different parts of my recent novel Border Line and apparently I write like:

H P Lovecraft – supernatural, extra terrestrial                                                                  Arthur Clarke – science fiction                                                                        Margaret Atwood – ?!                                                                                       James Joyce – double?!                                                                                     Arthur Clarke – perhaps this algorithm is on a loop

I put in a few paragraphs from my second novel, Unseen Unsung and I write like:

Anne Rice – vampire, Gothic fiction, Christian Literature, erotica                         H.G. Wells – science fiction                                                                                    Kurt Vonnegut – satire, gallows humour and science fiction again

And my first novel, A Small Rain and I write like:

H.P. Lovecraft – supernatural, extra terrestrial                                                      P.G. Woodhouse – out of left field

My unpublished non-fiction manuscript, Writing to a Ghost: Letters to the River Kwai 1941 to 1945 and I write like:

Arthur C Clarke – …what?

A short, short story, Barbed Wire, that I wrote in December on a course attached to the Reality Exhibition at the Sainsbury Centre at the University of East Anglia. The story related to the painting by John Keane, The Inconveniences of History II and I write like:

Neil Gaiman – graphic novels, comic books

Let that be a lesson to me; narcissism just leads to confusion. Or possibly the statistical analysis tool needs some adjustment. I have read none of the works of these writers apart from Margaret Atwood and P.G. Woodhouse, but I am reasonably certain that neither my style, nor, for sure, my content, has any resemblance to theirs.

My 500 word story is on this page.Screen Shot 2014-10-10 at 12.19.51

I did finally stop pfaffing about and started writing today.

Reading pile-up and Reality exhibition

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My reading has reached crisis proportions. Middlemarch, which I started months ago, has been cruelly and endlessly sidelined, though each time I pick it up, I am right back in there, the characters are old friends and I am in happy awe of Eliot’s every, exact word. Grabbing a volume slim enough for handbags and waiting rooms, I also started Goethe’s The Sorrows of Young Werther, the story source of an opera. For iPad reading on trains, I have Carol Balawyder’s Mourning has Broken, a very moving and fascinating set of essays. Also downloaded months ago, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s Americanah, which I foolishly started… just to see what it was like. Sandwiched between these, but finished, have been a list of nine books both light and heavyweight and ahead are another five books to read ‘immediately’.

So, I made a resolution, NO NEW BOOKS until all the above are finished, and I MUST  carve out some real writing time.

I have just started a ten-afternoon writing course at the wonderful Sainsbury Centre, Screen Shot 2014-10-10 at 12.35.40    Screen Shot 2014-10-10 at 12.39.35             at the University of East Anglia (UEA). I signed up for this at a low moment when re-reading the final, supposedly fully edited, manuscript of Border Line, and having concluded that I still had everything to learn about writing.

The course tutor is Patricia Mullin, so I downloaded Patricia’s novel, Gene Genie, and have been reading that on the train.

The writing course is attached to the current exhibition of modern and contemporary British painting, Reality. This is a stunning exhibition (no photography allowed), but we have a free run of the exhibition for the ten days of the course. Many paintings have intrigued me, but one by John Keane (website screen grab), has set a story going in my head.

Screen Shot 2014-10-10 at 12.19.51

His other work is fascinating too and on his website he says:

I am interested in the process of painting, and I am interested in why 
human beings want to kill one another for political ends. These two 
apparently diverse preoccupations I attempt to reconcile by smearing 
pigment around on canvas in an effort to achieve a result whose success 
can be measured by how well it disguises the sheer absurdity 
of the attempt.

And what is the writing course homework? Trawling for great opening lines and writing our own story first lines. I spent a happy and feverish week reading old favourites: Kipling stories (The Maltese Cat, Without Benefit of Clergy, Little Tobrah, The Head of the District etc), and Salinger (For Esmé With Love and Squalor etc), Saint Exupéry (The Little Prince) etc, etc, etc I also opened all my most-loved books, only to find that the majority had nothing dramatic about the opening lines. They were often quite conversational. Though one of my favourites is Mary Renault’s The Last of the Wine which opens:

When I was a young boy, if I was sick or in trouble, or had been beaten at school, I used to remember that on the day I was born my father had wanted to kill me.

Is it just me, or are others caught in the same reading maelstrom? How does one extract oneself, brain intact, from such a reading pile-up? (sorry about mixed metaphors.)

I shall go and sweep some leaves and pretend that my list of tricky phone calls to promote Border Line can just as well be tackled next week… I read this and then made myself ring a local newspaper.